Lion-Hearted Girl
by ElsieLembeck
Summary: Miss Isabella Swan was perfect and strove to remain so. But when her perfect world reveals just how dark it can be, she must find her inner strength and a new kind of perfect. Light is always within reach, and love everlasting, no matter how long the journey. (AU, all human)
1. Chapter 1

Life in 1869 might not have been easy for some, but for Miss Isabella Swan, everything was perfect. She had beauty, brains, wealth, and status, as well as a budding romance with a most desirable bachelor. There was not one thing she was missing. But one terrible night changed everything. Isabella's world quickly became a dark abyss, sending her on a journey she never thought she would ever see. Finding the light again in the midst of a tragedy, no matter the person, place, or time period, is always the hardest thing to do, but as Isabella learned, it is the most important.

The girl with the lion heart will always fight for the light.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the songs I reference throughout this story.

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"The only stars I see in the sky, they don't move me

'Cause they've all been dead for millions of years,

They're just light diffusing."

Chapter One

Deep green fields and rolling hills spread as far as my eye could see through the window of the carriage as it bumped slightly along the muddy road. The view was as constant in time and space as anything I had ever known: endless green fields, hills, trees, shrubbery, bits of muddy brown roads, and endless gloomy grey skies. The clouds this evening set a damp chill on my skin through my traveling cloak, even from inside the carriage. I spotted some sheep off in the distance, still and ever present like everything else. I loved my home in Yorkshire, but at times I wished the outside were as varied and interesting as the estates that decorated its landscape.

I ran a gloved hand down my thigh, over the smooth shiny purple fabric of my dress under my cloak, smoothing wrinkles I knew were not there, but something about the action was calming. Absentmindedly, I fidgeted with the small pearl buttons on my gloves and the small diamond pendant hanging around my neck as I watched for the approaching Laurent estate from the carriage window. The road was lined with trees, and the green fields in the distance were rapidly overtaken by forests. The smaller road leading to Sir James Laurent's estate finally became visible through the trees and shrubbery, thereby signifying the end of our monotonous journey. The silence in the carriage began to reach a deafening level, and I began to fidget with my hat in an agitated manner, hoping that I would not disturb it because I knew it was already perfect.

I thought of the last time I had been here, a welcome distraction from the dull journey, which was for a ball. Sir James threw a spring ball two years after he took possession of his father's estate and title after his father's death and invited just about everyone in the county. Within those two years, he had apparently remodeled several parts of the estate, including their great hall, gallery room, and library, as well as some landscaping on the surrounding grounds. The great hall was the only new room open for visitors that evening, but the splendor of it all was so breathtaking that no one minded in the least. The room was set alight by what felt like a thousand of the tallest candles, sending light to reflect on the mirrors and shiny metal surfaces in the room so that it all came to life with a warm glow. The softest colors bathed the furniture, and the flowers were all so light and delicate they could have been feathers in the rich crystal vases. Everyone wore their finest in anticipation of the event of the season, and the room itself was greatly rewarded; mixed in with the harmonious sound of the skilled quartet accompanying the dancers was the hushed sound of rustling organza, silk, and tulle, the soft tinkle of swaying pearls and jeweled pendants, and the rhythmic tapping of the dancers' fine shoes. Even in the equally exquisite dining room next door, the only sounds to be heard were the cautious clinking of silver on china, wine glasses chiming in countless ceremonial toasts for trivial but deliriously happy reasons, and a gentle hum of civilized and jovial conversation sprinkled with brief moments of delightful laughter.

Everyone was in high spirits from beginning to end, dusk to dawn, and the estate never once lost its warm sparkle, but rather it grew as the night wore on. Merry dancing gave way to feasting and drinking, drinking gave way to conversation, and, for some, conversation gave way to hushed clandestine meetings in empty corridors and dark garden pathways, sprinkling the air inside and outside of the estate with small bubbles of enchantment. I felt my face grow warm at the memory of my own clandestine meeting in an empty corridor, all hushed whispers and careful touches and shy smiles, followed by a rushed escape to the garden at the fear of being discovered, only to be pulled behind a large topiary, embraced within strong arms, and kissed with gentle soft lips. No one minded the chill in the nighttime air outside, or how everything was bathed in weak frost that twinkled in the light of the hundreds of lanterns on the garden paths. The warmth in our hearts provided the warmth for our bodies until the sun began its ascent at last and warmed the air with its own gentle morning glow. Everyone parted with sleepy eyes and bright smiles, all reluctant to leave that brief moment of heavenly gaiety, and all speaking of repeating that night again soon. It was, in a word, perfect.

I longed to relive that night, or live within that memory forever, and sighed, completely melancholy now. But of course nothing could compare to the ball I attended at Chateau de Chenonceau three years prior. The hosts were entertaining an Italian duke and his family, and all the country's elite attended and displayed their riches and lavish lifestyles, all hoping to meet the duke. As luxurious as that night was - complete with imported silk, grand family jewels, extravagant hats, an entire orchestra, a staff of servants to rival that of Versailles, a never ending banquet, dancing in the grandest of ballrooms, and prestigious guests - it was clear to everyone from the party's inception that the night was strictly business. The duke had his reasons for visiting, something about needing money for his military, and the nobles had their own reasons for attending, likely making an acquaintance with the duke and obtaining foreign connections. The exact reasons never interested me, as I was only sixteen-years old at that time, and I never needed a reason to attend a ball. Grand social events had always been a dream-like experience for me, and that ball was truly the grandest ball I had ever attended, shining with its own sort of perfection. Still, my heart yearned for its mate and the night a promise was made, overpowering my lifelong admiration of opulence and prestige.

"Sir James should really see to replacing those flowers in front of the house," my mother said, startling me out of my thoughts. "They are rather distasteful for such a dignified estate. They must be Lady Laurent's choice, seeing as how she has cheapened every other reputable facet of this place. Don't you agree, dear?" Her voice resonated as though it were bodiless, as her deep blue traveling cloak blended completely into the rich navy velvet of the carriage's interior.

My father merely grunted in response. His black hat was perfectly balanced atop his head, his waistcoat was of dark grey silk, and his black trousers and coat were both immaculately smooth. It was as though nothing could interfere with his pristine image of proper gentility as he sat silently reading some correspondence during the ride - not the bumpy roads, not the chilled moisture in the early spring air, and certainly not my mother's animated chatter.

"Why, just last week I heard from Mrs. Stanley that Lady Laurent invited the Volturi family to dinner under the pretense that her husband would be joining them. But she never told him, and the entire Volturi family arrived without the proper greeting from their host. He was not home, you see. In fact, Sir James did not come home until well into the second course and was quite upset about the whole matter. Could you imagine, dear, having the entire Volturi family, who are only in the country for but another fortnight before returning to Italy, over for dinner and arrive to your own meal late? Good heavens, Lady Laurent could really use some guidance as to how not to embarrass one's husband." My mother finished her little tirade with an unconscious swipe at a totally nonexistent errant hair across her brow and shook her head slightly, too, for good measure of her disapproval.

"Well perhaps, dearest, you could provide Lady Laurent with these much needed lessons since you never disappoint your husband. I could think of no one better," my father said, lowering his seemingly fascinating letter long enough to direct a small smile at my mother before returning to his task.

My mother immediately began to fidget in earnest, repositioning the front of her cloak on her lap, straightening her gloves, touching her hair under the brim of her hat. "Oh, Charles, really now," she said with a matching smile, clearly flustered. "I only meant that I do not understand Lady Laurent's appeal as she has done everything possible to insult her husband and his reputation. It's just not sensible. She needs to consider the reputation she's darkening for her children. With a small child already and one more on the way, she really ought to be more thoughtful."

The Laurent family had such a long and well-liked history in Yorkshire, spanning several generations and respectfully upholding their status as baronets through it all. With this hereditary title came uncommonly good breeding and refinement, easily earning the respect of everyone in the county - including those in the lower classes. While there were some people who pitied the lower classes, which was a waste of time as far as I was concerned since they were all genetically predisposed to laziness and incompetence, the Laurent family employed as many of them as possible in their mine and factory, keeping them useful and not ever idle, as they so like to be. Their generosity perpetuated throughout the years, including that of one Sir James, and by that point in time, those peasants all surely owed Sir James something in return for his family's kindness. I had heard on a few occasions that employing so many people was unnecessary and possibly reckless, but it seemed to be a Laurent family tradition that would not be dismantled any time soon.

Sir James even surpassed the efforts of his predecessors and married a girl of inferior birth, the now-Lady Victoria Laurent, the daughter of a merchant. Rumor had it that their paths crossed in town one day, and he was immediately taken with her and asked her father for her hand. Apparently, she was rather well-educated and presented herself well, but nonetheless it was a risk for Sir James and his reputation to permanently tie himself to her, a girl who was unaccustomed to the demands of his family's lifestyle. Still, he married her and shocked all of Yorkshire with his brash but kind behavior. As the daughter of a barrister, successful and esteemed though he was, I could only hope for someone half as kind and generous to undertake a significantly smaller risk by comparison and ask for my hand and give me a future. However, as memories of that ball and my escort's lips pressed to mine flooded my mind, I felt a blush rise once again to my cheeks and down to my chest and realized that I was already well on my way.

My situation was in no way dire, except for the way in which all matters of the heart seem monumental and fragile, and I knew comparing myself to Lady Laurent was ridiculous. My father was of course very successful in his work and had many friends in high places as a result of his brilliance. He always took care to provide a comfortable life for his family that clearly reflected his success and instilled in us all a sense of pride for it. Pride was very important to my father, and we all had much to be proud of; combined with his family's long history as barristers and solicitors, and my mother's connection to French elite, we were positioned quite well in society.

It was because of this fortunate position that my father had such a good reputation amongst the gentry, leading to countless recommendations between clients and mutual friends. Sir James was one of my father's newer clients, having acquired my father's services after his father died. While I knew little in the way of details about their business, I knew my father liked working for Sir James. He spoke endlessly about his manners and intelligence and the beauty of his estate, while keeping respectfully silent on the subject of his wife. They were often in each other's company, and although many invitations had been exchanged over the last two years, our families did not fully meet until the ball at his estate due to various prior engagements mostly on the part of Lady Laurent. Receiving an invitation so soon, only a fortnight, after the ball and being able to accept it gave me such excitement and a most delightful change in our daily routine.

However, this invitation was not without speculation. My father received the invitation only yesterday for us all to dine with them the very next day. Such short notice exuded some kind of emergency regarding the guest list, namely one brother in particular and a few easily persuaded guests, proving true a certain rumor circulating around Yorkshire during the past week. Not only was such a hasty invitation erring against decorum, but we were not sufficiently prepared as my sister was currently in Paris. Our party was an unfortunately odd number, and as a result our entire dinner party would be odd-numbered. Still, I knew that ultimately this would once again become Lady Laurent's fault and not ours, as she was the hostess and should have planned better.

My sister Brianna was already in Paris at our aunt and uncle's house for the past week; she left early and without me, intending to extend our usual length of our annual visit by an additional month, claiming that Paris life in the spring was so much more refreshing than the slow and almost nonexistent transition from winter to spring at home in England. She very often complained that British life in general was quite stagnant and boring, and frequently voiced her desire to live permanently on the continent, where life appeared more diverting. I, of course, told her on as many occasions that such thoughts were near reckless and that she shouldn't chase a more adventurous life for fear of her reputation. At seventeen years of age, she needed to mature and learn to appreciate the subtle intricacies of our society. Mastering such a lifestyle was truly an art, and I would not have her ruin the progress I had made so far in my own endeavors.

I was raised knowing how to conduct myself in a proper manner and to always appear respectable. My mother insisted on thorough etiquette lessons, as well as French and piano, at a very early age; by the age of five, I was worldly and well-mannered and was often coaxed by my parents into performing at dinner parties. Formal dancing, painting, and riding lessons were incorporated not long after, and my father hired tutors to teach my sister and I all necessary academic subjects that ladies were expected to know. Luckily for my parents, I enjoyed learning and welcomed new activities. It never took much encouragement for me to read or play the piano, and once I was of age I could not be kept from the dance floor. Perhaps my father's proud disposition influenced me, but I always wanted to make my parents proud of me. I would gladly take everything they would give to me, conceptual or material, and try to impress them and their friends with my poise and intelligence, knowing that making a good impression upon other people would somehow reflect upon my parents. I wanted to be the best that I could be, for my parents and for my own pride. I strove for perfection and often attained it - humbly, of course.

However, our society was frequently fickle and formed their perceptions based upon what was immediately visually apparent, a vice I was guilty of committing myself. My family never left anything to chance and always looked respectable, in the event that rash opinions might be made. My father's financial success allowed us all to acquire fine clothes and small luxuries, further solidifying our acquaintance with prestigious families. In turn, their mannerisms influenced us. Laughter must always be contained, or else risk people making assumptions as to one's purity. Partaking in activities that did not exhibit one's intelligence was an insult to one's reputation and family. And children were no exception, of course. Playing, running around in gardens and moors, and socializing with children of lesser known families were considered almost abominations and were all strictly forbidden. We all took great care and attention to detail to ensure that we were all the best that we could be at any particular moment and respectfully withheld judgment on those that did not do the same; gossip was regularly considered offensive and unnecessary, so everyone often waited until they were alone or at home before sharing gossip, of course.

Still, I knew it was not my place to remark on Lady Laurent's behavior, even to my parents, so I held my tongue and tried not to smile in amusement at my parents' commentary. In all sincerity, Lady Laurent really was quite a disaster. My dear friend Jessica Stanley had told me about the latest gossip surrounding Lady Laurent and the Volturi family at the now infamous dinner party. She spoke at length of how lovely and distinguished they were all rumored to be, except for Count Aro Volturi's brother Marcus. According to Jessica, Marcus was always in such a foul mood, mostly because of the recent death of his wife during childbirth, and their treatment by Lady Laurent when they had dined with her the week prior only made him worse. He had taken such great offense to being neglected by the master of the house, and thereby subjected to a substandard reception and no acknowledgment of who his brother was, as though they were ordinary townsfolk instead of foreign nobility, only to find out that the master himself had never been made aware of any reply to the invitation. From that moment onward, with the assistance of his shrewd brother Caius, it was as though he had a personal mission for vengeance against Lady Laurent for her grave error and insult to his family's honor. The horrendous manners of Sir James' wife and how he would never allow himself to be in her presence ever again were all that Marcus talked about any more, according to Jessica.

Marcus Volturi had a notorious reputation amongst the British gentry for being perpetually fickle and foul tempered, but the fact that his most recent episode occurred as a result of Lady Laurent's error seemed to have relieved Marcus of all fault in the matter. Marcus and his family were clearly the victims in the rumor circulating Yorkshire while everyone almost sang of all of Lady Laurent's embarrassing faults and even Sir James' obtuseness. Many people attributed her many social faux pas to her less than favorable upbringing, but with so many apparent mistakes I often wondered if she were erring on purpose. Surely no one could be that obtuse - not even a merchant's daughter.

The small road led straight to the front door of the Laurent estate, open lots of green grass on either side of the road, while tall trees framed the space. The front of the large estate loomed before the carriage: three generous floors of imposing stone and large windows, fine moldings and decorative finials along the facade, age and modernity married artistically through classic architecture and welcoming gardens. In the fading light of the cloudy day, bright candlelight glowed warmly through the windows, luring me inside and bringing my mind back to the present.

As the carriage finally came to a stop in front of the Laurent estate, servants came outside to assist us from the carriage. One of them opened the carriage door, and I gracefully slid my gloved hand into his equally gloved hand and slowly stepped out of the carriage. While I waited for my parents to climb out of the carriage, I glanced at the front of the house, the source of my mother's recent ire.

Daisies. Lady Laurent ordered daisies to be planted in front of the estate. In full bloom, their vibrant colors shone bright into the gloomy overcast day, but no amount of cheer could make up for their cheap appearance. Daisies were practically weeds and were associated with children and immaturity, the complete opposite of the reputation of this house. She really could not have picked a worse flower for such a visible location. Secretly, I rather liked the simplicity and vibrancy of daisies but would certainly never admit to it, let alone display them for all the world to see. I knew my worth and the damage that careless choices could do to it. It was common knowledge that Lady Laurent was not as sophisticated as all other ladies of her station - and below - but her carelessness was certainly out of hand and could only lead to her family's ruin.

Shaking off such unpleasant thoughts, I made sure to fix a gracious smile on my face and assume an air of sincere joy before turning to face the Laurents' butler, who stood in the impressive doorway of the estate. I summoned every bit of kindness, genuine or not, and followed behind my parents as they gracefully approached the stairs with arms linked.

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Song info: "Everything's a Ceiling" by Death Cab for Cutie


	2. Chapter 2

This took a little longer than I thought it would. Oops. Between the holidays and my perfectionist tendencies, I'm posting this later than I would've liked to. So to make up for lost time, I'll have the next chapter up later this week.

And I'm going to be listing songs at the end of each chapter (there will be some exceptions) that have either inspired parts of that particular chapter or just remind me of that chapter in general. My brain works in references and connections, so instead of chapter titles, I have songs.

Thank you for reading!

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Chapter Two

After depositing our traveling cloaks, coats, and hats with the servants, the Laurents' butler led us through the stately entrance framed in rich dark wood and classic furniture that supported elegant muted florals in sculptural and delicately painted vases. Gilded gold frames displayed large portraits and landscapes all down the main corridor, each one as exquisite as the next. Our footfalls were muffled by the soft, ornate rug that ran the length of the main corridor over the wood floors. Everywhere our gaze fell, some small accent or piece of furniture sought to impress upon us the true and very tangible importance of their owner; the air even seemed weighted with legacy and money.

We were led upstairs where most of the family's rooms were, and the parlour we were received in did not disappoint. Elegant wallpaper covered the walls above crisp white wainscoting, beautifully framing several more paintings. The simple wood-framed fireplace stood on one side of the room with a lively fire inside while its mantle displayed charming figurines and pottery. Large windows lined the rest of the room, each with elegant drapes, displaying the fading light of the gloomy day outside. There were two long settees, upholstered in lovely light blue velvet, facing each other in the center of the room within the confines of a large rug with two plush armchairs sitting beside each other on the end of the rug closest to the windows. Luxurious vases of flowers - lavender, yellow roses, and hydrangeas, curiously enough - peppered the room, all light and natural beauty in a room otherwise completely manufactured and almost heavy in its prepossessing desire to impress. There was balance, however slight, which was an achievement on its own as these old estates were notoriously difficult to decorate and make anew.

The butler came to a halt and cleared his throat. "Mr. Swan, Mrs. Swan, and Miss Swan, sir," he said as Sir James rose off a settee, and we bowed and curtsied in greeting.

Sir James, dressed in an elegant black suit with his blonde hair smoothed back and away from his face, smiled amiably, bowed, and extended a hand toward us as he approached us. "My good friend, Mr. Swan, I'm so very pleased you could join us this evening. And how lovely it is to see your beautiful family again. Mrs. Swan, might I take the liberty of telling you once more what a wonderful asset your husband has been to us all. I cannot begin to tell you how many times his wit and scholarly dedication have come to my salvation after some rather ill-advised business endeavors," he said to my parents, glowing with good humor and affection.

My mother radiated with pride in front of me, shoulders squared and chin raised, and glanced at my father with a suppressed smile before turning back to Sir James. "Sir, I must confess that I am rather proud of his achievements myself. Thank you very much for inviting us. You have a lovely home."

Sir James waved a hand of dismissal and said, "You are most kind, but do call me James, will you not? I am confident we shall all be good friends." After my mother nodded and requested he treat her with equal frankness, Sir James finally turned to me and said, "Miss Swan, it is a pleasure to see you again. You are as beautiful as your lovely mother - and not unlike her to be sure!"

His eyes, a clear and cool blue, were pleasing in appearance, but there was almost a hollow look to them, as though the mind were reciting rehearsed thoughts for an audience. His smile, while also pleasing in its evenness and brightness, was equally hollow and did not reach his eyes. Before I could put any more thought as to what these observations could mean, I saw those hollow eyes dip past my face and rest on my chest for a moment, after which that hollow smile deepened, crinkling the skin around the eyes as they returned suddenly rejuvenated to mine.

Doing my utmost best to keep a natural smile on my face despite the chill that crept up my spine and outward to every limb, I politely replied, "Likewise, Sir James". I tried to reason with myself that some people were not as refined as myself, regardless of financial resources, and were not in complete possession of their actions and reflexes. I was also acutely aware of the scooped neck of my dress that exposed my collar bone. I would just have to take care with the top of my dress and cover my exposed skin whenever I could. After all, it was not proper for a woman to tempt a man, married or not, and men would be men in the face of temptation.

I heard my father make his apologies to Sir James for Brianna's absence and Sir James begin to introduce us to the rest of the guests while I reclaimed my wits. I looked about the parlour and saw Lady Laurent sitting on one of the settees. She should have greeted us alongside her husband, rather than remain seated like another guest. I could tell that we were all about to experience Lady Laurent's superb manners in fine form this evening, as they were already off to a marvelous start.

Count Volturi, his beautiful wife Countess Sulpicia Volturi, and their children Alec and Jane, who were both a little younger than I, were seated on one settee, a group of distinguished guests dressed in deep rich tones of velvet and silk, lace and chiffon, all perfectly tailored and draped in the new and sophisticated French high fashion. Not a wrinkle was apparent on their fine and fair faces, boasting of kind features and good breeding, and not a dark hair was out of place. They were all so poised with calm but friendly smiles as they all bowed and curtsied in greeting during the introductions.

And then there was Lady Laurent, sitting on the opposite settee alone, clearly meant to be sharing the space with her husband and my parents. She wore a simple pale green dress that was clearly better suited for daytime and a pile of curly red hair that looked as though it hadn't seen a brush yet that day. She looked like she had been outside in the wilderness playing in the moors with her child as she remained seated with a dour expression on her face. She regarded me with slightly narrowed eyes, the fair young skin of her face looking aged beyond her years around her blue eyes.

"You'll have to forgive me for not rising to greet you. I'm afraid I don't rise as easily as I used to," she said, smoothing her hands over her very pregnant stomach before casually embracing it with her arms on her lap.

My parents politely accepted her sentiment, and I gave an equally polite smile, before we took our seats at Sir James' direction. My parents sat with the Laurents and I sat in one of the armchairs. As apparent as the empty second chair was in this room, I could only imagine how terribly an empty chair would appear in the dining room. I could not wait to tell Jessica and hoped no one could see my gloating smile.

Returning to his seat, Sir James said to the room, "Mr. Swan's youngest daughter is in Paris at present. I understand you have family there, Mrs. Swan."

My mother was clearly thrilled to be spoken to first, but her natural poise and good breeding kept her neutral. "Oh, yes. I was born there but now it is just my mother and my sister and her family. They have a lovely estate in Provence and a charming house in Paris. That is where Brianna is now." Even after just over twenty years of living in England and a lifetime of speaking English, my mother's native French accent resonated strongly in her speech.

"I think France is a lovely place," Count Volturi said with an air of genuine interest, his own strong Italian accent shining through. "We've been to Paris many times for business and have been fortunate to have been invited to a number of estates. It's a marvelous country."

Past experiences in France and current events, political and social, were then discussed in the way that adults always find necessary when speaking of another place. They all exchanged polite remarks in response to various anecdotes, and I found myself growing bored with the conversation. I did not care very much to hear about someone's memories and pretend their stories were of any interest.

"I wish my family and I could go to France more often. I have the sudden desire to go," said Sir Laurent. He spoke with a strange tone that I could not decipher and that belied the kind smile on his face.

My mother, ever the party-loving hostess, predictably sprang into action. "Well perhaps one day my family could entertain you and your family in Provence. I am sure we would all enjoy your company if you so desire. And you of course, Count Volturi. Any time you feel the need for some French culture, please allow us to oblige."

"What a very kind offer, Mrs. Swan. I shall remember your generosity kindly," said Count Volturi with a kind smile and a nod of his head. "I do believe we are well overdue for a trip to France," he said with a questioning glance at his wife.

"Yes, very generous indeed," Sir Laurent agreed. "I know my wife would be delighted. We have just added an assortment of French literature into our family library and it is all she talks about anymore." He spoke with that strange tone again which began to hint at some marital discord.

Lady Laurent's voice suddenly cut through the air, not even attempting to veil her acidic tone for the sake of her guests. "Yes, I'm afraid I must be bothering my husband talking about all the reading I've been doing of late. I've been reading the works of a fascinating poet lately - Charles Baudelaire. Have you heard of him? He has an incredible collection of poetry that was just published last year called Fleurs du mal. It is so very vivid and the stories are just fascinating. My favorite so far is called Une Charogne, a carcass. It's about a couple who find a carcass in a dreadful state and -"

"Victoria," Sir James interrupted with a tone of warning and looking absolutely scandalized. It was a highly inappropriate topic; what sane person would speak of such things at a dinner party?

Lady Laurent shrugged in indifference but I saw a small smirk twist her mouth. "Well to be quite honest, dear, I would not like to go to France. Why go somewhere so far when I clearly only belong here?" Pointed glares and honest hatred were plainly evident in her speech and were starting to make everyone uncomfortable.

Countess Sulpicia spoke for the first time, calm and dignified, the perfect image of nobility. "Lady Laurent, let me assure you that there is one piece of France that all ladies from any country desire more than anything: the dresses. French fashion is truly unlike any other." I suddenly knew without a doubt the two of us would get along nicely after hearing her talk about my favorite thing in the world in such a way.

And as expected, my mother joined in. "My family is very close to Charles Worth, the designer in Paris? Well my husband is actually his cousin come to think of it. He was how we met," she said with a small smile at my father. "His designs are just exquisite."

Countess Sulpicia suddenly came to life, her face lit up with a grand smile. "I own a number of his creations. What a small world it is. Do you get first choice with his new designs?"

"Sometimes," my mother replied. "When I still lived in France before I married my Charles, he would very often come to the house with dresses he made and ask our opinion and sometimes he'd give us the originals once he mastered the look." At this point she was absolutely gloating, with that light look in her eyes and wry smile, and I suppressed my proud laughter.

At this revelation, Countess Sulpicia's jaw dropped. After regaining her composure, she said, "Well, I suddenly find myself sharing my husband's interest about a trip to France. Such an experience would be absolutely incredible."

"I now regret scheduling business meetings for next month," Count Volturi remarked with a laugh. Turning to my mother, he said, "If I didn't have to return home so soon I dare say we might have been able to accept your offer."

My mother was visibly affected by this comment, and my father took advantage of her silence and said, "How has your holiday been, Count Volturi? I trust Yorkshire has treated you well during your stay?"

"Oh, yes, indeed it has. This is beautiful country here. We saw the North York Moors yesterday and they were lovely. Alec wants to go riding there tomorrow. Seeing it through a carriage window was not enough for him." Alec nodded in confirmation, but did not look altogether pleased to be spoken of, and his father added, "And your neighbors have all been very welcoming. The day after tomorrow we will be dining with the Stanleys."

"The Stanleys are dear friends of ours," said my mother. "My Isabella is a close friend with Miss Jessica Stanley." Her broad smile at me brought several pairs of eyes to me, whereas I had otherwise been ignored so far.

"Is that so?" said Count Volturi. "We met them at another dinner party the other day and found them to be charming people. I do hope my brother is feeling better by then. It would be a shame for him to miss two wonderful evenings." He looked down at his hands as he spoke, suggesting that what he said was a lie. So the rumors were true then...

"Yes, I wish we all could have dined together one last time before your departure," Sir James said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "My wife and I have found your family to be wonderful company," he said to the Count.

Before anyone could say anything more, a servant came into the parlour and bowed before waiting for Sir James to notice him. Upon recognition, the servant said, "Dinner is served."

At this announcement, Sir James rose and helped his wife off of the settee before holding out his elbow in invitation for his wife to walk with him to the dining room. However, Lady Laurent shook off his hands as quickly as she could and ignored his proffered arm while walking as quickly as her heavily rounded form would allow. I could tell Sir James was frustrated with her behavior - who wouldn't be? - but quickly shook it off and stepped closer to me, arm still in an open invitation.

"If you would allow me to escort you, Miss Swan?" he asked with a cordial smile. After I graciously accepted, he walked me slowly to the dining room. "And how do you find Paris? The same as my wife - not interesting and too foreign?"

His opinion on the topic was so very clear to me, and I could not help the fact that his wife was so easy to disagree with. However, I was their guest and could not insult the lady of the house, so I summoned an indifferent attitude and said, "Not at all, Sir James. I love Paris. I plan on joining my sister in a week."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him facing forward, but a bit unfocused, as he replied, "Indeed? Well, how lovely. And what is it about Paris that you enjoy so much?"

With so many thoughts and mannerisms to balance and so much on my mind, I was caught unprepared by his question. How could I dissect my second home? But I was well trained in the art of civilized conversation and would never let him aware of my unease. I spoke slowly so as to give myself more time to think of a proper response worthy of my station and current company. "There are so many things, but if I must choose I shall have to say shopping on the Champs-Élysées and seeing the art in the Musee du Louvre."

I heard a deep chuckle escape him as he quickly turned to me and turned back forward. "While I am not surprised to hear that a pretty girl such as yourself enjoys shopping in Paris, I am quite surprised that you enjoy looking at art."

Did he not believe me to be educated? Art was a sophisticated intellectual endeavor that I knew was popular among the upper classes. Not wanting to assume his intelligence or damage his opinion of me, I mustered as moderate an answer as I could find. "I am very interested in art. I might also suggest that fashion is a wearable art form. Anyone can possess art bound by canvas and a frame with names like Francois Boucher or Jean-Honore Fragonard written on them, but art expressed through fine fabric and embellishments is even better. You can go anywhere in the world and everyone will know who you are just by looking at you."

By this time we had reached the dining room, standing beside our chairs - his at the head, mine at his right hand - and waiting for the rest of our party to find their seats. As he stared at me with narrowed eyes, he said, "Quite the intellectual I see, Miss Swan."

The dining room was a fairly large space, with dark, warm wood-paneled walls with decorative designs, paintings, and tapestries hanging on them. A marble fireplace stood on one side of the room flanked on either side by sideboards where fine sculptures were displayed. Windows lined the opposite wall, framed by rich velvet drapes. A long dark wood table in the middle of the room commanded everyone's attention, surrounded by plush chairs and laden with fine china and candles, and an ornate rug blanketed everyone's footfalls as they all approached it.

Jane Volturi stood across from me, at Sir James' left hand, while her brother stood to my right and, since we were an odd-numbered group tonight, the seat across from Alec was left empty. I could see my mother on the other side of the empty chair, next to Count Volturi, who was at the right hand of Lady Laurent at the other end of the table. Once everyone was in place, the servants assisted all the ladies to sit first, followed by all the men, chairs respectfully pushed in.

As I placed my napkin across my lap, carefully smoothing it out, the servants began to serve the soup course. My father, who sat to the left of Lady Laurent, began to speak of his work, a case concerning some mutual friend of his and Sir James. This, of course, was a path of no return, as passionate and proud of his work as my father was, that lasted through the soup and fish courses and well into the venison course. My mother made passing remarks true to her wit, and Countess Sulpicia spoke whenever polite but without much substance, clearly unfamiliar with my father's clients. Sir James was very much invested in the conversation, while Count Volturi was only mildly impressed despite my father's best efforts. Jane, Alec, Lady Laurent, and I were all silent through this conversation, working our way appropriately through the provided silver and carefully sipping soup and sherry and chewing fish in such a way as to politely not make a sound.

As the conversation wound down in the middle of the venison course, it became clear that Lady Laurent's silence was not a result of her lack of knowledge on the subject, but rather she seemed angry with her husband, if the looks she was giving him meant anything. And judging by her husband's increasingly sour expression, he noticed as well. Clueless as to what the true reason might be and uninterested in the topic of conversation, I focused on eating my meal as quietly and gracefully as possible while ignoring much of the conversation itself.

"Miss Swan, do your intellectual pursuits extend to other venues or only to art?" Sir James' voice brought me back to the present, shocked by both his direct address and his focused gaze as he mindlessly twirled his fork on his plate amongst a good portion of uneaten venison.

Seeing how relaxed he was - leaning with one arm on the chair's armrest and head cocked to the side as he looked at me - I took my time swallowing my wine before replying, not ignorant of the way his eyes dipped once again to my neck and chest, as though following the wine's descent down my throat. "I also enjoy reading, sir."

"Might I inquire as to which author has appealed to your intellectual fancy of late? Someone not as risqué as Baudelaire to be sure." He glanced in his wife's direction as though to make sure she was listening to him.

I quite enjoyed reading, about as much as I enjoyed buying new dresses, and while I did not want to embarrass myself or my family by admitting an unpopular author's name, I also did not want to lie about something so dear to my heart. "Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte is my favorite novel, but I have recently finished Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens and it was quite good," I said, hoping Sir James at least liked Dickens so that my interest in the semi-scandalous Bronte was not so memorable.

I feared I made a mistake as Sir James immediately frowned and put down his fork with a clatter. "Bronte and Dickens? What, no Jane Austen as well?" He sat up straight in his chair, muttering something that sounded like "sympathizing for the overreaching peasant class", full of disdain, looking as though he tasted something bad.

I was mildly alarmed and was willing my mind to come up with a reply when Lady Laurent spoke.

"Miss Swan, do you have an attachment to Mr. Michael Newton?" I froze every muscle and felt my breath stop short. I slowly turned to look at her as she continued talking. "I saw you dancing with him at our ball for most of the night and could have sworn I saw you two sneak off somewhere alone. But surely a respectable young lady such as yourself wouldn't do such a thing, let alone with a man with whom you have no attachment." Her tone was casual and innocent, but her gaze was anything but.

I felt all my blood simultaneously leave my face and gather to it in full force. How could she have known? Was she the mystery person who intruded on our moment and sent us running for cover outside? Why would she possibly bring this up now, two weeks later, never mind in front of everyone? This kind of story could send a reputation into dangerous waters.

I heard Sir James say "Victoria" in warning again and my father say "I beg your pardon," all in a shocked tone that matched my own feelings. I replied, "No, I do not have an attachment with him and I certainly was not in any such compromising situation as you suggest," hoping that I controlled my voice enough and sounded convincing.

Lady Laurent had a smug look on her face, as though she knew something I did not, or perhaps she could tell that I had lied just then. "Forgive me. I must have been mistaken."

The rest of the dinner party passed without consequence, and the hosts and all the parents resumed some incredibly boring conversation, which I succeeded in ignoring. I was more than a little unsettled by the Laurents' strange behavior all night, fearful of my one selfish transgression becoming common knowledge, and willing Sir James to stop looking at my chest - and Jane's for that matter. It seemed as though he had accepted my seemingly strange taste in books and went back to behaving as he had earlier. I was not certain which mood of his I preferred as they were both unsettling.

Before long and not soon enough, dinner came to an end and dessert was had by all. I had been looking forward to this dinner, in the short amount of time I had known about it, and meeting the Volturi family, and yet I found myself willing our visit to come to a faster end as my discomfort was getting the best of me. As though she could read my mind, Lady Laurent insisted on everyone visiting her son, who was in his own rooms either sleeping or reading, and insisted on everyone going as a group to see him, thereby postponing coffee in the parlour and extending our visit that much longer. I was not pleased. No doubt the child was unkept and foolish if he were anything like his mother and no fit sight to see and waste one's time.

"Actually," Sir James interjected during his wife's proposal, patiently looking at me, not quite staring, "I think Miss Swan would like to see the library. Isn't that right?" After protests from his wife that their other guests had already seen the library, he said, "Well, then, I shall take Miss Swan to the library myself. As an avid reader, I would hate for her to miss this opportunity." The temptation to take his offer was strong as I would have greatly loved to see the library and not see their little child, but surely such an admission would be terribly rude. However, he continued speaking before I could reply. "You don't have to answer; I can see the answer plain in your eyes. We can all meet in the parlour when we're all finished."

A quick glance at my parents showed me that they approved, and a passing glance at Lady Laurent showed me that she most definitely did not approve. I could easily imagine fire and brimstone shooting out of her eyes, but I could not fathom why. With confusion storming my mind and discomfort storming my heart, I fixed a respectable look of aloofness on my face and nodded my assent. Sir James immediately rose from his chair, assisted me out of my own, and led me out of the room and away from our party.

He led me down a long corridor, with soft candle light in the sconces on the walls lighting our way through the darkness as the light outside had already vanished. The windows displayed a glimpse of nighttime falling on the estate and the surrounding forest, which instilled a bit of fear in my heart as the darkening sky engulfed the now black trees that all together formed one large threatening mass of intimidation and uncertainty and casted ever changing shadows on the garden as it unanimously swayed in the cool spring breeze in the moonless night. I was never allowed out of doors very much, and certainly never without a chaperone, so my inability to discern anything familiar through the window did not inspire my curiosity in the slightest, but rather it sent a chill down my spine and forced me to keep my head turned away from the window. However, the view straight ahead was not much better. Ahead lay darkening corridors that the candles could not entirely light as the light continuously shifted in a breeze that I could not feel, suggesting that the air around us was alive or perhaps the shadows were concealing something threatening. I might have been confident in myself and my station, but I still held onto my childhood fear of the dark and the unknown secrets it held.

In my rapidly shifting, fear-induced thoughts, I unconsciously gripped Sir James' arm a little firmer, desperate for a savior to provide some reassurance. I tried to summon some strength and the knowledge that I was no longer a child and diverted my attention to the artwork on the walls - dark tones and deep colors contrasting with bits of light, realism and portrait work at its finest.

"Is that a Velazquez?" I asked, surprised that this estate should have a portrait of royal status hanging so casually in a corridor of the family's quarters, well out of sight of any impressionable guests.

"It is indeed. It appears all that time in museums has been beneficial." He was looking at me like he had at dinner, openly and appreciatively, eyes light and searching for something.

I thought it best to face forward again and discourage any further connections. Unsettled as I was by absolutely everything around me, I resigned myself into silence and looked only at my shoes on the wood floor.

At the end of the long corridor, we finally reached a set of carved double doors with ornate knobs that led to the library. I suddenly found myself looking into a large room lined with dark bookshelves, showcasing hundreds of books nicely. One wall contained several windows end to end that would no doubt light the room beautifully in the day. Small tables and chairs stood in the middle of the room, covered with books and papers. There was a large fireplace on one wall that appeared to have a marble mantle and hearth, and a plush rug covered the entire floor, providing a softness equal to the fire's warmth.

I walked in and suddenly found that I never wanted to leave this room. "This is incredible. This room is lovely." I knew I was being too forthcoming and needed to calm myself.

Upon turning to face him, I saw that he was studying me with a serious look in his eyes, leaning casually against the doorframe with arms crossed. As he spoke, he entered the room and closed the doors. "It's not that exciting. It does look impressive, I'll grant you that, but the most dreadfully boring business happens in here." I couldn't even begin to imagine anything in here being dreadful or boring as I glanced around this marvelous room, but it was not my place to criticize. His voice startled me out of my reveling. "Perhaps you could help me change that. What do you really enjoy doing for fun, Miss Swan?"

This was such a strange question I found I almost could not answer him, but I knew I must. "I believe I already told you, sir. I read and I like art." As I spoke, he slowly approached me, lazily taking his time. I was feeling increasingly uneasy by the second.

"Are those really the only things you enjoy? Looking at things, never experiencing them? A reader of scandalous Bronte and supporter-of-the-poor Dickens, frequent visitor of Paris, who sneaks off with her beau at balls where her own family is in attendance - a rebel in almost every sense - is only interested in museums and books?" His tone was disbelieving, but his face showed disgust, as though I made some grave error. "There must be more to you, Isabella, more that you are hiding from me."

He kept walking toward me, forcing me to step back from him to maintain our distance, until a bookshelf stopped my progress. I could not move and yet he still advanced until mere inches separated us. My breath was coming too fast, too shallow, my heart racing, my skin flushing and sweating.

"Your expressions show clear on your face, in your eyes. Your blush commands control of your face... and chest." His eyes followed his mind and sent another chill down my spine. I felt such a desire to run but I was trapped, and fear made me suddenly blank and stupid. "You are not the disinterested unemotional intellectual you try so very hard to be. If it's a confidante," he paused as his eyes searched mine, "or a teacher that you require, I would be more than happy to oblige."

His hands reached out and caressed mine for the first time, shocking me with the contact. They dragged up and down my arms and came to rest on my waist as I saw his face come closer to mine. I tried in vain to move away, and he softly snorted, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Don't pretend that you don't want me, Isabella. There is no lying allowed in this room. If I were to be completely honest, I wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you."

This time I could not move away, and his lips touched mine as I closed my eyes out of fear. His mouth lingered, pressed, assaulted, while his hands crept up the front of my dress, warm but wrong hands caressing my chest. The severity of just how wrong this was made me suddenly remember that I had hands of my own that had been uselessly clenched into painful fists at my sides. I brought my fists to his chest and pushed as hard as I could. Again I heard that chuckle as his hands closed around my upper arms instead, a derisive smile and sinister eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

"I won't tell anyone. Just feel, live in the moment," he said softly, as his hands slid down my arms until he grabbed one hand and pulled it to rest on the front of his bulging trousers.

I might have been a proper maiden, but I knew what was happening, and fear ran through me as strongly as I had ever known it. I ripped my hands out of his and pushed as hard as I could against his chest, causing him to stumble back a couple of steps. I finally had some space but knew it would not be for long, as his face became such a horridly furious sight, his own fists clenched at his sides. He took one large step toward me and raised a hand, smacking me across the face with the back of it. I felt my whole body turn with the force of it, my face stinging with such a terrible pain that brought tears to my eyes. His hands gripped me painfully tight around the arms and shook me.

"You bitch! You think you can just abuse me as you like while I am being nice to you?" Gone was the soft, smooth voice of what I then realized was seduction as he roared at me.

I was crying in earnest now, defeated, hopeless, doomed. He suddenly threw me across the room, and a table covered in books stopped me as my thighs collided with its edge. A strong hand pushed down on my back, forcing me to bend over the table, chest flat on the top, face resting on loose papers. "You asked for it, you whore," he growled in my ear.

I heard myself beg him to stop, crying my disapproval, pleading for mercy, but I knew I was powerless to stop him. Before my mind could catch up with what was happening, my hands were held captive, my skirts and petticoats were tossed over my back, and strange hands were touching places they should not. The hard surface of the table combined with my confining corset and sobbing state made breathing near impossible and I feared I might lose consciousness, but not before I heard him tell me not to scream and promise certain retaliation if I did.

If I thought I was in pain before, I was certainly near death as I felt him make his violation official. I fought to control my breathing and hold in my scream, detach myself from what was happening, allow my senses to fade away to safety because surely this was not something to commit to memory.

His movements caused my face to chafe against the papers on the table, pain spreading throughout my entire body, and I wondered how long I would have to endure this. After what felt like a hundred years, a face appeared within my field of vision. Gradually, my mind realized that I recognized this face, that I loved this face. That my mother was standing next to Lady Laurent as she opened the doors to the library with the rest of the dinner party standing behind her. That they could all see what was happening to me.

* * *

Song for this chapter: "Good Help (Is So Hard To Find)" by Death Cab for Cutie

Also, the title of this story comes from a song that I forgot to reference last time: "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" by Florence + The Machine


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

He noticed the intrusion shortly after I did, abruptly stopping all movement and releasing me from his painful grasp in response. And I, no longer being held in place, collapsed to the floor and let the physical pain and my emotions take over instead.

My entire body hurt, places deep inside I did not know could hurt so much and places all along the outside that had never even been subjected to a slap before. I could not move and yet I knew I was sobbing hysterically, a visceral combination of screaming and crying I did not know I was capable of.

As I lied on the floor by the table, a sobbing and injured mess, incoherent and no longer aware of my surroundings, I felt gentle hands touch my face and chafe my arms. Through the warmth and pressure of the hands and the sudden smell of familiar perfume, I knew it was my mother. But that knowledge did not make much difference because I did not want anyone to touch me ever again, and my mother was not exempt. I jerked my face away and pushed back at her hands, not sure if I was actually yelling at her to get her hands off of me or if that was just in my head. My efforts were yet again unproductive as she just pushed my hands back and this time gripped my arms more forcefully.

" _Ma vie_ , please stop fighting me. I know you are upset but you are making a scene." I could hear her words but I did not completely understand them. My brain was fighting her words and logic like my hands were fighting her proximity to me. "Isabella, I need you to stand."

I felt her hands grasp my arms and pull me to a sitting position, and once the pressure of my body weight hit the lower half of my body, I definitely did not want to stay seated. A fresh wave of pain and sobs took control of me, but my mother refused to let me lie back down, her arms maintaining their firm hold on me.

" _Mon cœur_ , you need to stand up. Pull yourself together and stand." How could she expect me to act normal after what I had just endured? Did she not know how much pain I was in? "Isabella. Stand. Now." Her voice was firm and unrelenting.

She pulled my arms rather forcefully until I was standing, but my legs were still too weak and shaky to support my weight, and I had to lean heavily against my mother or else I would fall back to the floor.

With one arm around my waist, hugging me to her side, and one hand clenched tightly around my arm, my mother pressed her face against the side of my head and said, "Isabella, pull yourself together. We need to leave here now and go home. We are going to walk out those doors and get into our carriage and go home. Please, stop crying. Crying is a sign of weakness, my love. You must be strong. Make those people out there believe that nothing happened in here. Lean on me if you must, but we need to hurry."

As she started to guide me toward the door, I was suddenly aware of what was happening around our private little bubble. I kept my eyes on the floor as my mother led me out of the library, but I heard Lady Laurent screaming at her husband, and my father was yelling at him, too. I was in no fit state to hear the words, only the voices, and knew that other unfamiliar voices were adding into the fray. Skirt hems and nice shoes came into my field of vision on the floor, and I kept my eyes trained even harder on the wood floor as I desperately did not wish to look upon the Volturis - and have them look upon me - in this state.

My mother kept a firm grip on me as we quickly navigated the house, swift and unsteady, strong and damaged. In a blur of motion, our cloaks were retrieved and the carriage was summoned, all the while I was oblivious, distracted, distant, internalized, preserving what small bit of myself that was not torn apart in that house. I no longer heard voices, I only saw ground, and I retreated to a place of make-believe, encouraged by my mother's request to pretend that nothing happened, where I could pretend that absolutely nothing eventful happened and that dinner went smoothly and we were leaving as any normal family would. My pain did not exist. My world was still grand. All that existed in that moment was the smell of my mother's perfume and the warmth of her body against mine.

But my peaceful state did not last once my father's harsh voice joined us and I was all but shoved into the carriage, my mind being brought back to reality with the first wince upon my contact with the carriage seat and the first command shouted by my father for me to tell him what happened.

"Did you provoke him?" he demanded, causing new tears to immediately flood my downcast eyes and my chin to tremble.

My mother clicked her tongue in her mouth and held my gloved hand. "Charles," she said, sounding as shocked as I was.

He looked frustrated at her protest and said, "I have to ask."

She started rubbing my hand with both of hers, and I saw her shake her head out of the corner of my eye. "Can't you at least wait until we get home? Look at her. She is in no fit state to talk right now."

I wished my father would listen to my mother and just let me be, but he would not. He only grew more frustrated. "What difference does it make if I ask now or later? What's done is done and crying about it will not change anything, nor will my asking questions," he said.

My mother sighed. "You are right. It makes no difference. But please wait until -"

"Renee, enough," he interrupted her with a wave of his hand. He looked at me, eyes wide, face stressed, mouth twisted in anger, and again asked me, "What did you do?"

The look of him and the pressure of the whole situation was too much to bear, let alone my shame and pain that were being ignored. I felt the tears spill over my eyes and stream down my face, and a sob escaped from my chest as I said, "I didn't do anything."

He shook his head. "You must have done something. Think!"

I shook off my mother's hands and wiped at my never-ending stream of tears on my face as sobs continued to erupt from deep in my chest. "I didn't! I swear! He attacked me!" I was all but screaming but I could not help it; my pain was unbearable and could not be controlled.

"Enough of that," he said as he turned to look out of the carriage window. "There had to be a reason. Did you say something to him in that library?"

"I told him to stop," I said to his profile, trying to calm my breathing while my mother put her arm around my shoulders.

He glanced at me, anger mostly gone, and then looked down at his hands clenched into fists on his lap. "That is not what I meant. How did you provoke him?"

I was growing frustrated and started to cry in earnest again. "I did not provoke him at all! Why won't you listen to me?"

"Do you really think she would do something like that?" my mother said, tightening her hold on me as she spoke. "Our daughter?"

At this, my father's anger returned, and he glared at her. "Well, our daughter apparently makes a habit of disappearing with men, unchaperoned," he said, his voice biting and acidic. "Who can say for certain what she does or does not do? How many witnesses must we ask?" His voice raised in volume as he spoke and his face contorted into a rage that made me look down at my lap in shame.

My mother gasped, clearly as scandalized as I felt, and said, "Charles!"

He shook his head and looked out of the window again. "This isn't getting us anywhere," he said in a calmer but unstable voice. "We will finish this discussion later when we have all calmed down."

The never-ending journey home was silent and uncomfortable. My mother held my hand in hers while my father ignored us both, either looking out the window or down at his lap. The physical distress combined with the rich food from dinner and the emotional stress that had taken control of my entire body made the journey unbearable. It felt as though the walls of the carriage were bottling up all the air inside and suffocating us in the process while the chill from the nighttime air crept inside. My body was slowly turning to ice and hardening inside, and my mind bounced chaotically, operating on its own furnace, creating a discord that made everything even more confusing.

How could I ever be calm? What happened was devastating and unexpected. There was no preparation for it and no subsequent plan for recovery. Why wasn't my father as upset as I was? Or my mother for that matter? Were they holding it in until we got home or were they simply not affected? What was I supposed to tell them when we got home? My answer was still the same. I did not do anything. What else could I say? What else would they ask? This whole ordeal was beyond humiliating and I did not want to think about it, let alone talk about it with my parents. I shuddered as I remembered that my parents actually saw what happened, and my shame increased tenfold. What must they think of me? Not much from the way my father spoke a moment before, I reminded myself. What must the Volturi family think of me? No doubt they will tell the rest of their family and soon the whole county would know. Was my reputation ruined? Was I ruined? When would my mind stop racing? When would I forget the feel of his hands and the sound of his voice in my ear? What could possibly be done at this point in time? What was going to happen now?

I found that I agreed with _that man_ on one thing: I still could not see anything being boring in that library, but I had experienced something most dreadful there and I absolutely did not want to ever step foot in it again.

When we finally arrived at home, the house was completely blanketed in darkness, save for the candlelight in the windows, thanks to the ever cloudy skies that hid the moon. Everything was silent and still, again, without even the sound of crickets chirping. Just like the carriage, the nighttime was too quiet, too still, too dark, too isolating, and the suffocating feeling was back.

Servants came out to assist with our arrival, and I was rushed into the house by my mother. The corridors and stairways were all a blur as we swept through the house to my room.

The maid had lit the candles and fire in my room and put fresh water in the jug on the washstand while we were gone, as per her normal routine. Once inside the room, I found that I was appreciative of her foresight.

My mother closed the door behind her and immediately started to help me undress, which made me both nervous and grateful at the same time. I unfastened my traveling cloak, and it fell to the floor and piled itself behind my feet while I removed my hat and tossed it onto my toilette table. Those first two easy tasks were seemingly all that my hands were capable of doing, and I was at my mother's mercy for the rest.

She unbuttoned my dress behind me, and it pooled around my feet on top of the cloak. Next came the petticoats, which also pooled around my feet, and my corset, which was discarded on the floor too. Now dressed in only my shift and drawers, she helped me step out of the voluminous pile of fabric and guided me to the corner of the room behind the partition. She left me there for a moment, wondering about her purpose, but she quickly returned with my basin full of fresh water, a cloth, and a towel, which she all placed on the toilette table just within reach from behind the partition, as well as a clean nightdress that she placed over the top of the partition.

Turning to face me with a serious expression, she said simply, "You should clean yourself."

There was suddenly so much meaning in her glance and so much filth upon my skin I could have died. Up until then, I was able to ignore the sticky feeling between my legs, but it was suddenly all I could think about. I felt dirty and disgusting and I doubted any amount of soap and water would make that feeling go away. Shame and embarrassment flowed out from me like a beacon of red light as my mother left me to this task.

I slowly toed off my shoes and pulled off my stockings, dreading what was coming next. I slipped my shift off of my shoulders and let it fall down my body to the ground. As I bent to pick it up, something dark caught my eye. Hanging it out in front of me, my eyes focused on a dark red stain - a blood stain. I instantly felt sick and upset all over again as more tears ran down my face, shame burning off my skin. Did my petticoats suffer the same fate? My beautiful, crisp white petticoats from London? With a start, I realized my drawers must look even worse than my shift. With shaking hands, I threw the shift over the top of the partition and untied my drawers from around my waist. I slid them down my legs and almost fell over at what I saw. There was red on the white cotton, and I did not have my monthly cycle to blame. Sobs threatened to erupt from my chest, but I kept them suppressed, suddenly conscious of my mother in the room still as she pulled my shift down on her side of the partition. Why was there blood? The pain running through my entire body answered that question, and I quite simply felt like dying.

"Darling, is everything all right?"

I did not answer. I could not. Emotions were controlling me and I couldn't fight them back. I just placed my drawers over the top of the partition and turned to the bowl on the table, trying to forget the drawers ever existed.

The water was cold but fragrant, and I welcomed the fresh smell even though it simultaneously made me nauseous. I scrubbed my face, arms, stomach, everywhere with the cloth, but did not feel cleaner. I felt like I was just adding a layer of perfume on top of a pile of garbage. I washed between my legs last, trying not to notice how the water turned pink after I rinsed the cloth in it, but no amount of tears in my eyes could hide just how colored the water was when I finished.

I dried myself off with the towel laying on the table, pretending not to notice the tender skin around my wrists and along the front of my legs that was already showing bruising, pulled the clean nightdress from over the partition, and put it on. I wanted to hide forever behind the partition but knew I could not. With nothing keeping me back there anymore, I stepped out into the room and saw that my mother had put my soiled clothes together in a pile on the floor by the door and returned the basin, cloth, and towel to the washstand. She seemed to wipe her face before she turned around and saw me, but I could not be certain. Her face was calm again in an instant, and she offered to braid my hair.

After guiding me to sit in the chair at my toilette table, she took all the pins out of my now-mussed hair. She was quick and precise, treating her task clinically and remaining silent throughout the process. Her face remained calm and composed the entire time as I watched her reflection in the mirror on the table, carefully avoiding my own bruised and blemished reflection in the process. Once she finished, she moved away from me and pulled back the blanket on my bed.

I turned around and she said, "Why don't you get into bed? You can rest for a bit while I go get your father." I did not move right away, and she said, "Come on, dear. I'm sure you are tired." She attempted a small, motherly smile but it looked more like a grimace.

Still, I got into bed and let her put the blanket over me, tucking me in like a child. For a moment, I thought it looked like she might cry, but her face remained ever serious. Trying a small smile one more time, she said, "I'll be right back." She left the room, taking my clothes with her.

My body was tired, exhausted, melting into the mattress, but my mind was anything but. I felt troubled and sad and confused and lonely. I wanted comfort and solitude, support and privacy. My mind raced with the power of stress over what my father would say. What was there to say at all? What did any of this mean? Why did this happen?

I lied there trying not to panic so I could be level-headed when I had to address my father. Almost an hour passed and my parents still had not come. Finally, just past the hour mark, my mother returned, alone, looking flustered and significantly more tired than when she left.

"Your father is very tired tonight and is going to go to bed right now," she said. After a silent pause, she said, "Try to get some sleep tonight. It's been ... a long night. We've all been through a lot, so let's all try to rest tonight." She leaned over to kiss my forehead, and when she pulled away it looked like she wanted to say something else but apparently changed her mind. She then moved around the room to blow out all the candles and left.

Again I was left alone and was even more confused than before. Why wouldn't my father want to talk to me? What had happened between the ride home and now to change his mind? What had my parents talked about for the last hour? What was he thinking? What did any of this mean for me? With each unanswerable question I felt a panic rise within me that I had never felt before. Tears were flowing freely and my breath was coming short, my skin was crawling, and I desperately wanted to run. I was scared, but I knew that even if I asked for it, help would not be given.

And so the night went on. For seven hours I lied on my bed, staring at the ceiling, alternating between crying and panicking and silently wallowing, but never sleeping. At one point during all of this, I did manage to get close to sleeping, my body's physical pain finally claiming dominance over my mental pain, but it was not a complete sleep. My mind hovered between consciousness and a strong memory conjured only by the cruelest part of my brain. It was stronger than a memory, but not quite a dream, though it carried with it the immersive quality of a dream as proof of my frequent visitation and thorough documentation, as though it had just happened today...

 _He was dressed in a dreamy black suit, a tailcoat with black velvet lapels and sleeve cuffs, smooth black trousers with a black ribbon detail on the outside seams, a crisp white shirt with a shiny white silk vest, and a black silk bow tie, with pristine white gloves and shiny black oxford shoes. He wore his hair cleanly smoothed over with a slight curl at the front and a smile that widened to his ears and touched his light blue eyes when he saw me enter the room._

 _He approached my family and I, smile shrunken to a respectable and polite small smile, and bowed as he said, "Mr. Swan, Mrs. Swan, how are you both this evening?"_

 _"We're quite well, Mr. Newton," my father replied from in front of me. "And how are you? Are you enjoying the ball?"_

 _Michael couldn't keep his eyes off of me the entire time my father was speaking to him. He tried to look composed and calm, but that strong elated smile was stubborn and shone in the corners of his mouth. He finally looked back to my father and said, "Indeed, I am, sir. Might I have the honor of your daughter's company for the next dance?"_

 _"That's quite all right with me," he said. Glancing back at me, he asked, "Isabella, dear, what say you?"_

 _I could not answer fast enough. "I would be delighted."_

 _Michael held out his elbow for me and whisked me away to the dance hall where we danced just about every dance together, and for the two that we spent apart we kept an eye out for the other as we moved around the room. We spent the night dancing and talking, eating and drinking amongst friends in the dining hall whenever the desire hit us, and smiling. Through every spin of the dances, each sly comment to a friend, each bite of delicious food and captivating taste of wine, every touch however brief, it was as though the light in the room came not from the candles but from our smiles. It reflected in his eyes, and I would swear mine looked the same._

 _During one of our breaks from the festivities, we stopped at a table for a glass of wine, slightly out of breath from the rigors of dancing._

 _"That Redowa was going to be the death of me. I was sure of it," he said, panting slightly._

 _I laughed, loudly and without censor for what else mattered in that moment but the pure felicity in my heart? "I could see the exhaustion in your face. You might want to practice more so you won't get tired so quickly." Speaking, joking, sparring, it all came so easily with him._

 _He looked positively scandalized at the thought. "Practice more? Are you mad?" he said, his voice reaching a high pitch I had never heard him use before that made me laugh even harder. He smiled at me as I laughed and he calmed down a bit. "My legs would fall off if I did. And I know I'm not the only one that's tired. You forget, I've been looking at your face all night," he said as he lifted his wine glass to his mouth again, light eyes never leaving mine._

 _I could not stop the laughter even if I tried. Everything was light and wonderful as the air was warm. "Perhaps we should have sat out a couple of the dances. I can't remember ever dancing more in my life."_

 _He nodded enthusiastically at this suggestion and said with fervor, "More than a couple I'd say. I am so tired I dare say I won't dance again for the rest of the year."_

 _I knew he was not serious, just as I knew that he already knew how much I enjoyed spending time with him. But I had to make sure that he knew, as daring as that was, without any joking to cloud my meaning. I tried to look as serious as I could, but that smile would not fade entirely. "But I also don't remember ever having more fun."_

 _Our eyes locked for what felt like years, swapping wordless stories, effortlessly conveying our souls' secrets. Finally, he broke our trance and looked down at his glass. "What do you say we start sitting out on some dances now? Take a walk around the place? Find somewhere quiet?"_

 _I knew the idea wasn't entirely appropriate but the thrill of the whole evening and the way he was looking at me again was all so very addictive and I couldn't resist the need for more. Throwing caution to the wind, I said, "I'd love to."_

 _My hand met his elbow once again as he led me out of the dance hall, through the crowded corridors, and down to a deserted smaller corridor that probably connected to the family's quarters._

 _"We probably shouldn't be here," I said, my nerves getting the better of me._

 _"We'll just say we got lost," he said with a shrug._

 _"Lost? Going the opposite way from the loud music and from where all the people are?" I shook my head at him. "Brilliant. That's perfectly believable." The deep sound of a chuckle rising in his chest and the slight upturn to his mouth were an enchanting combination, and I wanted more._

 _"Then I'll say I was only following you and you got us lost. That's believable, right?"_

 _"Is that an insult to my intelligence? How dare you?" I pretended to act offended, but it was too difficult with laughter bubbling at the surface. "I'll have you know I have a very good sense of direction, which I wouldn't even need to navigate my way to a crowded dance hall. Besides, you're the man. You're supposed to do the leading. Or is that why you're having trouble with your dancing?" I accented my false accusations with a raised eyebrow and watched both of his raise in shock and a smile erupt on his face._

 _"You know I lead quite well. I'm a natural dancer," he said as laughter got the better of him too. Once our giggles died away, he turned suddenly serious and said, "But honestly, Isabella, I'd follow you anywhere." His eyes were so serious, so disarming, I found I could not look away, and nor did I want to. "I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but I hope you know that I have feelings for you and I'd like to officially court you if that's all right. I plan on asking your father for permission after I come back from London in three weeks but I wanted to ask you first in case I read everything wrong."_

 _He was looking at me like he was seeing me for the first time, like I was bound to disappear at any moment, like I was something valuable and desirable to cherished. I felt my heart stutter rapidly in my chest and my eyes couldn't leave the magnetic pull of his. "You didn't read anything wrong," I said strongly and without any doubt._

 _He slowly reached out and grabbed my hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across the back of my hands. As though watching from outside myself, I saw him slowly glide the back of a finger down the side of my face, eyes never faltering in their steady gaze._

 _So wrapped up as we were in our own little world, we almost did not hear the sound of shoes echoing on the wood floor down the corridor. We simultaneously woke from our daze, and he grabbed my hands forcefully and pulled me away from the sound of the intruder and toward the great hall, both of us startled into a quick jog that sent the sound of our own shoes echoing down the corridor. We did not stop at the great hall and went straight outside to the bracing chill of early spring nighttime air and the kind of weighted, deafening silence that only follows exposure to incredible noise. A few couples were strolling the pathways, occasionally stopping to share a smile, a caress, a kiss in the light of the lanterns._

 _Michael kept pulling me forward at a brisk pace until he brought us behind a large topiary, covered in sprinkles of frost, in an isolated corner of the courtyard. Once we stopped we were both breathless again. We could never seem to catch our breath tonight, but whether it was because of the never ending dancing or due to the joyous effects of a budding romance I did not know._

 _Was this love? This series of perfect moments and never fading smiles, never being able to catch our breath, and never wanting to leave each other's side?_

 _No sooner had my thoughts began to contemplate the idea of love when he pulled me around to face him and leaned down to kiss me gently on the lips. His arms wrapped around me and surrounded me in his natural warmth, fighting off the dangers of a lonely heart and frostbite._

 _When he pulled away, he placed his hands on my arms and his face against the side of my own. "I'll be speaking to your father soon," he said softly into my ear..._

Coming out of this reverie was perhaps the most difficult part of that long and painful sleepless night. I was angry that my happiest memory to date was now ruined by the events of that evening, and I found I could not even recall how Michael smelled as my olfactory memory was now muddied by _his_ smell. The entire memory was tainted, and I knew I would never be happy again. As grief gripped my heart once again, I knew that just as my father refused to speak with me this night, Michael would do the same, and that joyous day of promises for which I had been counting down the days would never come. I was left alone in all possible ways, endlessly asking myself, "What did I do?"

* * *

Song for this chapter: "Slow It Down" by The Lumineers

Thank you for reading! And thank you to those who took the time to leave a review!


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